Realization Dawns
by FusseKat
Summary: AU and OC pairing of Goren and Blake Jamison. Much more dramatic and adult than other Jamison/Goren fics I written, but still a romance based tale. You've been warned. : Rated for language near the end of the story.


_DISCLAIMER: __Dick__Wolf__, __NBCUni__, __USA__ Network and probably others can lay rightful claim to the rights of these characters – not I – unfortunately. No harm intended. All though Blake Jamison is my own creation._

AU and OC pairing of Goren and Blake Jamison. A lot less fluffy than the other Jamison/Goren fics I written, but still a romance based tale. You've been warned. :) Rated for language near the end of the story.

* * *

**Realization Dawns**

It is the sensation of his blood roaring in his ears that wakes him up: his blood seems swollen, too big for the veins, and each heartbeat brings a specific kind of agony. This pain drags him upwards, kicking all the way, from the very deep, brainless slumber. One or maybe it was two shots of Glen Livet too many that was the cause of it all.

Bobby feels the coolness of the empty bed and presses his face further into it, wanting it to swallow him up and give him relief from the burning fire in him, somewhere near his liver. But moving sets off a round of sirens and hammers in his head, and he wonders vaguely how he'll ever move again, because it doesn't much feel like he can. He groans, and hears a giggle in the darkness somewhere behind him.

He rolls over, doing his best to minimize the potential target he makes, half way off the bed and reaching for his gun before he can stop himself. The laughter only deepens, and Goren opens his eyes enough to see the glimmer of a grin shining in the shaft of moonlight that shows through the gap in the curtains.

Jamison is standing barefoot and bent over, jeans in hand, looking at Goren with that somewhat-cheeky, somewhat-cross look on her face that Goren delights in seeing. She's clearly enjoying her bed-mate's state of undress and dishevelment, judging by the filthy grin on her face, and is massively amused by Goren's pain, as ever. _Twisted, she must be one of the most twisted girlfriends ever…_

Goren groans again, relaxing and submitting to his too-early hangover. He stretches out across the bed once more, idle hands dropping to scratch his stomach in exaggerated laziness. He watches with only vague interest as Jamison slips through the room, gathering her discarded clothes, and trying to pull her appearance into some semblance of order. Her messy, shagged-out curls bounce about the place as she dips and dives, staggering a little under the weight of her own alcohol consumption and fatigue, and Goren feels a strange smile twist his mouth as if it were someone else's.

"Planning a midnight escape? Did you at least leave me a note, detailing what a wonderful time you had?"

"Well, then I'm about four hours too late. And who said I had a wonderful time? No, no note, why should I have to cater to your male ego?"

Even in the dark and his barely open eyes, Goren can see the twinkle in her eyes and the smirking grin playing on her lips and he grins broadly, suddenly feeling incredibly smug and proud of them both.

These last several months have worked out splendidly, unbelievably well for the pair of them: fun, hot, uncomplicated and completely, utterly low-maintenance. Jamison has been a revelation as a friend, as a lover and as a detective. Instead of moaning, whineing, and neediness, she's as strong in spirit in her personal relationships as she is on the job, and Goren wonders how he could have expected anything less from her. Jamison's unbreakable, same as him. Sex and friendship are inextricably bound together and that suits them both just fine, because that's how they want it. Nothing more and no longer anything less. For now._ Where the hell did that come from? Since when has there been a 'for now'?_

But the bed suddenly feels a little too cool on Goren's skin, despite the throws and silken sheets. Twisting, he slides back under he sheets and duvet, feeling Jamison's hot gaze rake across his back like fingernails. He turns, looking over his shoulder, and catches Jamison's glare. Jamison's glaring at him.

"Jamison? Are you all right to drive?"

"See you in the morning, Goren," Jamison dismisses him bluntly, clearly too tired to wrangle with either a half-asleep Goren or his own wee-hours moods. Which, considering it was 4.30am and they both had to be at work in a couple of hours, is completely fair enough.

This is the thing, Goren thinks as he stuffs his thumping head into the cold pillow once more: neither of them needs anything more from each other. This is what makes Jamison better than anyone he's ever been with before; the best of the best.

Jamison leans over his prostrate form and kisses the back of his neck, just below the hairline before slinging her jacket over her shoulder and calling out, "No need to see me to the door." Knowing full well he didn't intend to, this morning.

Goren kicks out at her in retaliation, catching her in the ass, as Jamison chuckles on her way out, she doesn't even turn, too used by now to the goodbye.

And like that, she's gone. Goren listens to her car's disgruntled and anemic sputtering as it disappears into the distance. When all is silent, he smiles to himself and rolls over to sleep all the deeper.

ooOOoo

Work is a constant distraction, these days.

Of course, if a major crime spree should occur, Goren would be the first to snap to attention - once a soldier, always on guard and all that. But for the moment, with his feet are propped up on the open desk drawer, a cup of Starbucks within arm's reach and the M.E.'s report on his latest case in his lap, and Jamison's perfume wafting over, Goren might be forgiven for temporarily forgetting the exact nature of the rising threat between the Masucci's and the Russian mob.

Luckily, the eleventh floor of One Police Plaza was deserted: word had it that Ross had gone out with Logan and Wheeler to work an angle of the aforementioned Masucci's and Russian mob. Any minor disgruntlement Goren might have felt at being left out of the fun was swept away by the small twinge of pride, knowing that he and Eames have had their share of important and high-profile cases. For now, he was more than content to let others have their shot at fame and fortune. He's learned it is not worth the invasion of privacy, the focus it takes away from the job and the fact that _The Ledger_ really won't print a hand gesture.

And, as Jamison leans over to fix the ink cartridge on the printer at her desk, Goren is reminded that 'in the office' days certainly have their perks. He tilts his head for a better view, before looking away.

"Do you mind not sticking that in my face? I'm trying to read, here."

Jamison puts a hand on the desk and twists to look at him over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. "You're complaining?" She asks after making sure no one else is within listening distance.

Goren fights the bubble of amusement welling up in his throat, nodding primly and keeping his eyes trained on the toxicology report in the folder on his lap.

"Certainly am." Decisive flick of the page. "How's a guy supposed to get any sort of work done with you waving that… thing around?" Look up pointedly, raised eyebrow. "I've got a job to do, here, you know."

"A job to do, he says!" Jamison's barking laughter makes Goren look up as she turns round fully, sliding up to sit on the edge of the desk and slowly crossing her legs, the skirt revealing lots of thigh. She had no idea when she put on a skirt this morning, what a truly inspired urge that had been. Leaning back on her hands with a look of supreme amusement flitting across her face, she challenges him, "You _want_ a job, you mean."

Goren slowly looks up at Jamison's face, studiously ignoring any other part of her and training his features into the picture of perfect innocence. He can't quite keep the smile off his face. "Oh, very good …"

He shifts in his chair and turns back to his toxicology report with a muttered. "You could have put my eye out."

"Shouldn't be looking then, should you?" Jamison says gruffly, turning her attention back to her blotchy report and the inky-band running the length of the paper.

"Smart-ass."

"Pervert."

"That's enough you two!"

The folder flies out of Goren's grasp as he stands to attention, and he notices Jamison rapidly stuffing her black, ink-stained hands into her jacket pocket as Captain Ross charges through the room, shoving a file at Jamison who only just manages to catch it.

"That building site on the east side. A DB was found as they excavated for the foundation. You're on it. Nice and simple, nothing too strenuous: you know the drill. Go."

"But… Ritchie has already taken off."

"Then you and Goren… GO!"

"What about Eames? She's not going to like…"

Ross turns around to look at the two detectives. "_IS_ there a problem with the two of you working this quick and simple case."

"Well, you know that Goren and I… that we are … well…" Jamison stutters out.

"Yes, I remember. But this is a simple 1-2-3, you're in, you're out case you can close just by going down there." Ross turned to start back into his office.

"But Captain, nothing is simple with…" She risks a sidelong glance at Goren.

At the look that crosses Ross' face, Jamison stops speaking as Goren digs his elbow into Jamison's ribs. The 'oof' noise as Jamison's breath rushes out of her makes Ross wheel round with a stern eye, as if daring either of them to question him further. Goren steps smoothly forward and in front of Jamison, who's rubbing the side of her ribcage ruefully while giving the back of his head a noticeable death-glare. Ignoring her, Goren gives Ross a balmy smile and a nod.

"Job's as good as done, Captain."

He looks round with an expectant smirk as Ross shakes his head, and just manages to catch Jamison's smile before it disappears under a scowl. Satisfied, he motions for her to precede him out of the bullpen. He bestows upon his 'new partner' with a smug smile that only grows at the muttered curse he receives in return, and they get on with the remainder of the day.

Once at the car, they are momentarily at a loss. Eames usually drives as Goren rides shotgun. Ritchie drives and Jamison rides shotgun in that pairing. Goren rolls his eyes and Jamison chuckles, as Goren pulls out a coin. Jamison calls out "heads". Heads it is and she tosses the keys to Goren. No pasts, no histories, and no need to discuss any of it during this short partnership. This is them, and it's not changed and it never will.

Jamison switches the radio on and Goren switches it off just to annoy her, and predictably gets an argument, and they play that game for a while, all the while keeping their eyes on the half-constructed houses for some sign of movement, hopefully indicating where they're supposed to meet CSU and M.E. units.

The late afternoon is peeling away into evening dusk by the time they get to the scene. A thin rain splatters against the windshield, turning everything outside into a dripping watercolor. The wipers make a slow rhythmic whooshing noise and Jamison is half-asleep against the window, tired eyes sweeping the piles of brick-work and sodden planks of wood when the hair on the back of her neck bristles suddenly and Goren shoots from the car.

Jamison launches herself out into the rain after him, but slides on the wet, wheelbarrow-tracked mud as soon as she rounds the corner of the tumbled-down wall and loses her balance. She crashes down to one knee, losing precious seconds as Goren flies ahead of her, dead-set on the blurred, dark shape he's chasing through the scaffolding. There's a bang, a crash and a cry and Jamison's heart is suddenly in her throat.

She streaks after them through the deepening gloom, running up a slippery plank onto a heap of rough sand and hurling herself off it to come crashing onto the back of the shape Goren had been chasing, who'd switched direction only a split-second before, knocking him flat to the ground. With relish, Jamison sits down heavily onto the man's back, deliberately shoving the head down and pressing the face into the sandy mud.

She reaches behind her back for her handcuffs and pulls them from their case. Her breath pulling hard from her lungs, she slowly realizes that Goren's not there.

ooOOoo

Jamison doesn't know why she was staying so long.

Ross hasn't stayed - of course, he hasn't - he'd left the minute it was clear one of his finest detectives wasn't in any real danger. He'd asked Jamison if she wanted a lift back, perhaps a drink or two, but understandably, she hadn't been able to bring herself to accept.

And so Jamison stayed, long after the doctor said all Detective Goren needed was 'rest and observation', she stayed long after the hospital had been doused in darkness for the night, long after any necessity or needs of friendship dictate. Jamison still doesn't know why she's stayed so long.

The nurses have given up asking her to leave - it had become abundantly clear that she was planning on ignoring them all night - and so she sits in the same burnt-orange plastic chair that she hasn't moved from in the last few hours, watching as Goren 'sleeps it off'.

Goren looks, in a word, terrible: his usually pale skin and encroaching grey hair is accentuated by the hospital's nasty fluorescent lights. Other than that, though, he looks completely and utterly fine: no tubes, no wires, barely any bruises or blood. So why are they both still here?

Jamison's eyes ache and a sting suddenly flashes through them, reminding her that she should probably blink. She does and it hurts, but she doesn't care because Goren hasn't moved and the expression on his face hasn't changed in hours. The room is so silent she can hear the buzzing of the lights.

Suddenly Jamison can't stand to be so close any more. She doesn't know why she's stayed so long, anyway.

Surging upwards, she pushes herself up and away from the bed, needing to get as far away as possible extremely quickly. She knows it's an overreaction, but she can't seem to help it. All this over nothing.

But as she reaches the door, hand pressed flat against the lightly peeling green paint, a too-small faint whimper escapes the bundle in the bed. And she's back by the bedside before he even knows it. Jamison watches, not daring to touch, as those familiar brown eyes slowly open. One blink, then another serves to part the clouds of confusion in Goren's fuzzy gaze. Another blink, and the flicker of lucidity is lost once more as the eyes drift upwards beneath the lashes, seemingly too heavy to pin down and focus.

"Oh, no you don't."

Jamison leans forward before she knows it and grabs the slack face between her two palms, a vague flicker of worry making her grip tight. Her hands unconsciously tighten around Goren's face, as if to keep him there in the hospital bed, right where Jamison can see him. Goren moans, and struggles weakly against the pressure, eyes breaking open once more and hands falling upwards to try and brush the grip away.

Jamison loosens her fingers but still holds Goren's face, her strange panic receding from her just with the sight of those dazed brown eyes. This is ridiculous. It was just a stupid set of bricks and Goren's own two left-feet. It's just a freaking concussion, for god's sake. No need to worry. He was fine; he was always fine.

She doesn't like all these feelings - certainly not for something so girly as a concussion… Maybe if Goren was dying it might be okay. Jamison has been at his bedside enough to know that it's okay, then. But not for just a knock on the noggin. She'll leave again as soon as Goren quiets down. She doesn't know why she's stayed so long anyway.

As Goren begins shifting in the bed and squinting about the place, blinking like some sort of newborn lamb, Jamison once and for all pushes everything she feels down and away from her mouth, which she makes smile for him. Not too much, though, because that would be silly because she shouldn't be this relieved.

She can see Goren starting to drift away from her again, she can't stand it, and she can't stand the fact it bothers her this much. She rubs at her mouth to cover the shaking sigh leaking from her. A hand snakes out from the too-white blankets and snags the arm of her jacket jerking her into place. Feeling the pull, Jamison turns and looks at first the hand, fallen almost at once to the blankets, and then up at her partner, at her love. Goren is watching her through heavy-lids, with the most bizarre, most unsettling look on his face: he looks almost… almost frightened.

Suddenly, Goren's hand finds its way into her hand and wonders vaguely how that happened. The words crash, thick and heavy, into existence before either of them can help it but, for just a moment, they seem like the most natural, easy words in the world.

"Stay?"

"'Course."

And she does. She stays all night, eventually falling asleep with her hand wrapped around her partner's, even though it's only a concussion and neither of them should be frightened.

ooOOoo

The apartment is far, far too quiet when Jamison lets herself into it. He's usually got music blaring at all hours, Goren: trying to blast the streets out of his head, the grime out of his hair and the dirt off his skin, as if with sheer volume alone.

The apartment has been too silent all weekend. Jamison hasn't heard or seen hide nor hair of Goren since dropping him off, spaced and sullen, here on Friday… There's nothing wrong with that, of course: it's not like they live in each other's pockets or beds or anything like that. But, just… the fact that there's been no contact at all annoys Jamison for some reason.

It had been there, niggling at the base of her neck and the back of her thoughts, all weekend. Goren usually calls her up to yell at her about something or other during the course of a weekend: Jamison doesn't even need to be near him to get in trouble anymore, apparently. But this weekend he hasn't called, not once, and Jamison is sick of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Not only that, but Goren has a head wound. One that was serious enough to knock the thick skulled stubborn brut senseless for a few hours. There's only so many times a brain can be knocked about in its box before stuff starts falling out of it. She's just making sure he's still alive, nothing more. Jamison could have phoned him, and then he wouldn't have had to bother driving all the way over here. She keeps telling herself this, and has almost convinced herself of it now.

It's this feeling of gritty anger and hard won loyalty - because Jamison _is_ loyal - that propels her into the still, dim living room, making as much noise as possible on her way before barging into the room and glaring at the sofa.

Goren is there. Stretched out lengthways from sofa arm to sofa arm. He doesn't even bother looking up when Jamison crashes in, and she isn't sure why this causes her hackles to rise further.

Those heavy eyelids are lowered, eyes fixed on the book he holds at his chest, lashes covering the brown eyes. But there's no blood and there's no bandages and Goren is out of the huge hospital bed only he's still not moving. Jamison swallows hard against a wave of nausea and shakes her head to clear it, quickly replacing it with the idea of frustration and the feeling of fury.

She doesn't care that there's a pile of books by the sofa, and Goren's eyes look scrubbed red and watery. Why should she? He could have phoned her.

Sniffing deeply, Jamison goes to the sofa and sits at the end of it, deliberately crushing Goren's feet behind her as she does so. Goren scowls up, flattening the book on his chest to see her, mouth pursed in annoyance. Jamison leans forward and peers down at the title.

"'The Scarlet Pimpernel'?"

Jamison sniffs again, as he flicks the book back upright once more, hiding his face from her. His voice is hoarse, clearly not used in a couple of days, and his words are full of forced nonchalance. He crosses his legs at the ankles behind Jamison, kicking her hard as he does so. "Yeah. 'They seek him here, they seek him there' and all that."

Jamison knocks the book down again, feeling deliberately obnoxious and wanting Goren to notice it for some reason. "Yeah, well, I'm not The Scarlet Pimpernel and _I've _been seeking you."

"Well, you've found me, haven't you?" Goren snarls and sits up, flinging his legs over Jamison's head violently, forcing her to duck to avoid a battering as he sits upright.

"Oh, yeah," Jamison says sarcastically, watching as Goren leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, book pressed between his palms, bending the spine. "Just call me little Miss Marple."

Goren makes a show of flicking the pages hurriedly. "Didn't know she was in it."

"Har-di-freakin'-har-di-har."

It should have been okay, there - that should have been close enough for them to manage - but somehow it wasn't, and Goren can't think why Jamison won't let him play his part anymore. The more he thinks about it, the crosser he feels: as the conversation lurches on, muscles become tenser, words become tighter and jokes become more strained, till Goren thinks they might shatter and kill them both.

Eventually, stubbornly admitting defeat, they switch the television on, they get beers and Chinese food delivered, and they spend the rest of the night ranting on about Ross' latest decision to keep Goren off for three days to recover. Anything to keep the suddenly-crushing silence away. But they both know, even though they can't make themselves say it, that they're suddenly more furious with one another in that moment than they ever will be with their boss.

As Jamison leaves Goren's apartment, a scant three hours after she arrived, she slams the door into the mocking silence.

ooOOoo

Perhaps she's still feeling a bit off… but… being unconscious for a bit doesn't justify behaving like a prize-winning jerk for days on end, does it? Goren can't just go pulling away from her just because he has a bit of headache.

Scowling into her coffee Jamison, mechanically brings it up to her lips and sips. She thinks about the phone call again; a hot and sick feeling coursing through her again and she pushes the near-whole bagel away with a heavy sigh. Why did she try phoning him? It made her feel just like a lovesick sixteen year old.

Cold-hearted old toad had been snippy and abrupt on the phone, claiming he was a little bit busy, and would she mind keeping her calls to office hours?

_What the hell? _ She'd only called him to see how he was feeling. Being angry is easy, even if she doesn't know exactly why she is; but it's at times like this when the effort of keeping up the outrage feels a bit beyond her that she minds.

She really freakin' minds, actually, if she's honest with herself… And, all alone in her too quiet apartment, eating a bagel in the middle of the night without anyone to talk to.

ooOOoo

An unusually slow day lands Jamison at her desk the day Goren is due back to work. Finding herself trapped behind a teetering tower of reports, suspect files and name-checks, she's in a foul mood when Goren finally gets out of Ross' office.

"Since Ritchie's off today, Ross wants to keep me in the office today and help you go through some of these reports."

Without a word, Jamison picks up a handful of reports and hands them to him. As he holds out his hands to grasp the stack, their hands accidentally touch and he sees her flinch. _Yep, she's really pissed._

It is a criminally sunny day, too, and the bright light that filters in through the blinded windows taunts them. Most of the other detectives seem to be out in the city today.

An explosive yawn wells up within Jamison's chest, and she raises a hand to cover her mouth as she opens it wide to release it, arching her back over the chair in order to gain the fullest enjoyment from the thing. Stretching her arms out to the side, she feels the tight muscles pulling in protest at hours spent gripping a pen instead of a gun, and she groans with pleasure.

She glances over at her temporary partner - maybe wanting to see how he's doing; maybe wanting to catch the amused twinkle in his expression before it was quickly smoothed over. Though probably just bored and looking for a diversion - but the curly head remains stubbornly down, bent low over his frantic scribbling.

She looks away quickly, then, a weird feeling of disappointment surging through her. She glares back down at her report, breathing quick, picking the pen up once more and stabbing at the paper. Feeling unforgivably silly because, for just a split second, she'd forgotten she was supposed to be angry with Goren.

The squad room breaks into livid silence and they don't speak again.

ooOOoo

Goren sits in the car across from her apartment, the quiet street does little to calm him and glares up at the window, brightly lit in the gloom of approaching night. He's been sitting here, quietly furious, for the past half-hour or so, a screw-like coil of bile turning tighter and tighter within the core of his body.

Each new reason why it could be, each new failed excuse, each cruel twist of the realization he'd come to that afternoon as the facts had clunked, relentless and unforgiving, into place forces his teeth to clamp down on his tongue all the harder, pain blossoming in forgotten corners of his mouth and reminding him of the fact.

_This is his fault._

He sucks in another breath, letting it out slowly, quivering smoke in the cold night. It fogs the side window before retreating away on the glass into nothing. Goren wishes his anger, uncomfortably hot somewhere near the base of his throat, would do the same.

After nearly an hour of agony, he can't take it any more and within seconds he's hammering on Jamison's front door, ready the shatter it into splinters if it's not opened in the next five seconds. Unfortunately, it opens before Goren can make good his threat, and there Jamison's standing with her arms folded across her chest, looking at Goren as if he's something that's just crawled out of the primordial ooze.

"What do you want?" She demands hotly, temper apparently still just as frayed as Goren's.

But, finally, Goren couldn't care less; he barges through the doorway, deliberately smacking his arm into Jamison's shoulder as he does so, knocking her out of his way.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jamison bellows, following in his wake and shoving him forward. Goren staggers and stops short to stop himself from falling. Turning around, the two scuffle blindly with one another, Goren trying to grasp her hands as Jamison keeps pulling away. Soon he's able to trap her hands and he lightly wraps his around Jamison's wrists, and he holds them up above Jamison's head while she still struggles in rage.

"I don't _know_ what I'm doing!" Goren yells into her face, and is loud enough to make Jamison recoil for a second, as if burned, and her ineffectual kicks subside instantly.

The apartment grows quiet. They stand, noses almost touching as he looks down at her and she up at him, but still somehow suddenly apart, chests heaving in time as they stare at one another, neither willing to be the first to back down in this ridiculous game of dare. Goren can't bear the look of anger he sees on Jamison's face these days, can't bear the fact that he knows he looks just the same: a mirror image. But, most of all, he can't bear the reason why.

He drops Jamison's hands roughly, but doesn't look or move away from her.

It's Jamison who looks away first, who deflates under Goren's glare, all that defiant anger and righteous indignation dropping away from her. She all but crumples, passing a shaky hand over her face and going to turn away from Goren. Goren grabs her arm, gently turning her back and forcing her to look at him.

Jamison no longer struggles, but somehow that's worse. Her eyes, now so free of fury, are suddenly full of regret instead as she looks mournfully at Goren. And when he speaks, his voice is hushed and miserable. "Why did you do it? Why did you stay?"

The words almost floor her, she was nowhere near prepared for that. Obstinance, flippancy, cruelty, coarseness, fury... She was used to many things from him but never, ever resignation.

Too off-balance now to try for any other emotion, for once she finds it is she and not Goren who stubbornly clings onto the threads of anger left dangling between them. It's the easy way out, and she knows it, but she can't come up with anything else in the face of Goren's quiet sadness. "Because you fucking asked me to!"

Jamison responds in kind, exactly how Goren had known she would. Her eyes flash dangerously and she seems to almost shake with the sudden resurgence of spite through her frame. "Well, then, why did you bother?"

"Because I fucking love you, you stubborn, hard headed…!"

Jamison's eyes widen ridiculously as the strangled shout seems to almost bounce off the walls of the apartment. Goren can feel the back of his neck flush in hideous humiliation as he finally shares the thought that has been twisting and curling within him since he'd realized the truth of it that afternoon. Now, any pretense at anger is ridiculous, and he can't even bring himself to look at his friend.

"What?" Not quite a demand, not quite a scoff. "Why?!"

Goren's answer as he looks up is bitter and almost, nearly true. "Believe me, I don't fucking know."

Jamison's chin automatically raises in defiance, then, and she takes an aggressive step toward Goren, her fists curl into balls by her thighs. "Why, what's wrong with me?"

And it is then - that very second as he stares, incredulous, into the raging green eyes glaring up at him through the unruly fringe, demanding an answer from him - that Goren finally realizes it might be alright to love Jamison after all.

And, finally, he laughs again.


End file.
